King Ragnar Imagines

A Healing Hand

Many things Aslaug could prepare for. But the vast pain in her womb was one that was not completely her own. The child widened her womb, of course, but it was significant and different. She felt his pain, deep in her calves up to the tops of her hips where she widened in preparation for the childbirth.

I have never felt a pain like this before.

Let me call a healer.

Siggy's offer came to life moments prior to the end of the pregnancy. The labour was slow and lasted deep into the night time hours when the child came into the world. He was, in a word, boneless.

"How are you feeling?" You asked of Aslaug after presenting the child in her arms. He was silently clutched onto her breast after what seemed like an hour of pained squealing. "We should sacrifice Eir for your recovery... and that of the child's as well."

You struck her as odd. In a pestle you would grind a fine dust of red, spreading it across the boy's forehead. Then alternating in front of Aslaug you warned her of impending pain. With the heel of your hands, you ground your palms into her low abdomen. She inhaled sharply, but made no other noises of pain as a true woman should. You admired her will. Despite a laboursome day and matted reddish hair, she looked gorgeous just as the day you first encountered her.

"I will heal." She smiles once your palms let up from her stomach.

Ivar, on the other hand, offered an uncertain fate. But how could you comment on the state of the child? You loved children more than anything in this world. After asking permission once more, your medicated fingers fell upon his temples.

Eir, goddess of life, spare him.

The baby was set into bed and Aslaug's pain was worn away, you slip out of the room for the first time in more than fourty eight hours. Your hands were sticky with the coating of dark blood. Your face worn by exhaustion. But if you could do it again, you would.

"Healer."

You suck in air as your body almost bounced off against a great fleshy wall. The man standing in front of you was a broad chested, muscled man with shaggy blonde hair. You lift your hands up to his own chest, horrified at the fact that you did so when you later realized who it was.

"Ah! Bjorn." You move away to wipe your hands down over a bloody apron. He brings his finger to rub up against his own ear, looking over from the doorway over to you again. He was a vision– and only a year younger than you.

"The Princess... she's asleep?" He asks, lips cusping into a frown.

You nod eagerly. "She had a difficult labour so please visit her in the morning. I should wash up, I'm filthy." You laugh. The hearty cackle dies in his throat when his hand comes over the small of his back. Unintimidated by blood, he leads you away from the doorway back towards the outdoors.

"Father wants to see you."

He was going to slit your throat. No, first he was going to gut you like a fish and then he was going to slit your throat and watch you gurgle on your own blood. Most men would blame you for what happened: Aslaug's near death, the lack of bones in the young one's lower limbs and most of all the manner in which he screamed for dear life.

Across from you, Ragnar sat in his vast thronelike chair. You heard a great deal on Ragnar. The man who became an Earl. Though he depths of those eyes were bluer and sharper than any sea you laid eyes upon. Out of nowhere, his fingers curled over the sturdy wood arms of his chair and he pushed himself up onto the furs that peppered the floor of the great fall. Your foot jerked back and you found your back buckling against Bjorn's ironlike stance behind you.

"Everyone seems to like you so much." Ragnar pour himself a drink of mead into a cup.

"I am not an incompetent woman." You bow at your waist, unsure why you were doing so, when there was no one as capable as you.

The corner of Ragnar's lips pulled up into a slight grin. "That must be why."

He steps off of the platform onto screaming steps, likening to the inner cries of your heart when Ragnar came down the steps. His face lowers into your own, twisting his wrist to offer the cup to you.

"It isn't about that."

"Oh." You take the cup and garner your confidence. "Then why are you calling me? I have a lot to do– for the young boy and Princess. I have none to spare."

"Ah," Ragnar clicks his tongue sharply. "She wants you to marry Bjorn." His other hand motions to his son over to rustle through his short blonde hair.

The sip you took out of a cup of mead was spat out over the furs. Your fingers come up to cup your sticky lips in response. "What?" You say.

You knew the Princess was fond of you. She said that she wanted you close! But this– this was something else entirely. You couldn't marry. Women like you simply did not marry. But if you had to– a Ragnarsson was nothing to scoff at.

"I'm no kind of wife for Bjorn. He's in love and–" You stop, glancing behind to Bjorn. His eyes weigh heavy.

"Then be a second wife. Plenty of Earls and men have many wives." He chuckles as you stutter out 'second wife' over and over again, as if its a curse that you can't stomach. Bjorn's hands are behind his back, locking fingers together.

"I feel sick. Excuse me." You push past Ragnar darting for the nearest the door to gasp for thin breath that simply couldn't get any thinner. The stars twinkle in the words above, mocking you as if to say, you have no choice.